Somewhere the Sun Is Shining
by mahtra
Summary: "Matthew, it is time for you to say goodbye to Mary!" 2x08-variation, some angst (not beta'd)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:**

 **All television shows, movies, books and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. This work is the interpretation of the original material and not created for profit. No copyright infringement is intended.**

 **References to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libellous, defamatory, or in any way factual.**

 _AN: This story won't be long: I guess about three chapters or so. I simply have to get this particular plot bunny out of my head. I had this idea several years ago, but somehow I never felt confident enough to give period and class distinctive English a try. It is still quite unpolished and I would love a beta._

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Matthew let his eyes roam over her face. The small droplets of sweat were slowly drying on her skin, leaving behind white jagged lines on her nightgown. He knew he should wash her face with a cloth, let a maid change her into a clean nightgown, maybe air the room, too. But she looked so peaceful. He didn't dare to disturb her just then.

Her fever had finally broken half an hour ago and Lavinia was finally sleeping.

Exhaustion was creeping through his body. His back hurt violently. He could no longer find any position, sitting or standing in which it didn't bother him. At this point he wasn't sure if even lying down would bring him some relieve. Over the last few days he had hardly slept, alternating between nursing his bride as well as his mother. It left him spent. But at last he knew the worst was over and for a moment he just enjoyed the knowledge that his loved ones would survive this wicked influenza.

He looked at Lavinia. She looked so very frail. And yet she wasn't. There was something there. Even though she had been feverish and unconscious at the time, Matthew had felt it. This refusal to let go, her determination to live. And in the end she had persevered. Dr. Clarkson had already prepared him for the worst, but she was still here.

He felt the small draft before his mind registered the noise. A door opening. For a brief moment he wondered if he really had been at Downton for so long as not to notice the servants anymore. He turned in his chair, about to send the person away again. He was convinced that Lavinia needed sleep more than fresh linens just then. But it wasn't a maid, it was his mother.

She looked haggard. It was obvious her dressing gown was not her own. It dwarfed her; the hem brushing against her slippered feet as she made her way over to him. And yet it was more that than ill fitting clothes. She radiated a deep sorrow. Even though his mother hadn't been as severely afflicted as Lavinia, she looked absolutely terrible just then. Her face ashen and with an tormented expression upon it.

"How is she?" she asked in a whisper. Her grim face softening only a hint.

"Her fever broke. About an hour ago I would say. She is sleeping for now."

Matthew shook his head. He felt like he was bursting with feelings and wished to tell his mother all; explain to her the agony of the past few days. His hesitations regarding his marriage. His joy at and the guilt he felt for kissing Mary. The alarm and relief, when Lavinia interrupted them. And then the fear of loosing his fiancée to the illness, wondering if it would be his punishment somehow. And as if this hadn't been enough a second shock: His mother, his strong mother, had become ill as well. She had always been there. Since his childhood this had always been a great comfort to him. Someone he could trust to explain what was happening to him and why his current malady wouldn't be so bad. She had always been clear in her explanations and reassuring at the same time. And suddenly, she couldn't comfort him anymore, because she had been thrown down with a fever herself.

After that he had felt conflicted. Rushing from one bedside to the other. Always doubting his priorities. He had been grateful for Mary. It seemed as if she had put aside any feelings for the moment and nursed whichever patient he could not be with. Mary was indeed a marvellous woman.

He felt his mother's fingernails brushing his scalp lightly. It had been her way of comforting him when he was still a little boy. And for a moment he simply enjoyed the feeling. Feeling like a little boy, reassured by his mother that everything would be well again.  
"My dear boy…" She sighed, holding onto his head for a moment longer.

And then, carefully and with some effort, she squatted down in front of him, holding onto an armrest for balance and support. She looked into his eyes and searched his face. The sorrow in her own face seemed even more pronounced.

"Matthew, it is time!"

He was confused, furrowing his brows and wondering what she was referring to.

"I think you should go now, say your goodbyes. Before it is too late."

He stiffened. Alarmed at the news. He tried to recall when he had last heard about anything regarding Cousin Cora. He had thought her on the way to recovery. And suddenly he dreaded what his mother would say next. It had to be someone else from the family.

"I know you don't want to confront your feelings and maybe you feel guilty. But I just know that you would regret it, if you don't go. Make peace. Let her go."

For a moment he was stupefied. His head trying to make sense out of his mother's words. And while his mind was still processing, his body reacted. His skin went cold. His mouth dry and his heart started pounding in an uncomfortable fast rhythm. Pounding hard against his ribs. He felt as if a hundred belts were tightened around his torso. Drawing a breath was a struggle. His throat was refusing the air to pass.

At last he said, "Mary?"

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 _Well? What do you think? I would love to get some feedback from you!  
_

 _PS: I don't believe that Julian Fellowes created one-dimensional characters. Every character has his/her motivation, good and bad sides; and I hope to show you these sides in the upcoming chapters. Consequently I don't want to hear about any death wishes for Lavinia or Sir Richard._


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, plays and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. This work is the interpretation of the original material and not created for profit. No copyright infringement is intended.**

 **References to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libellous, defamatory, or in any way factual.**

 _AN: A million thanks go out to all the reviewers. I really appreciate feedback. So keep it coming. And if you log in, I will even try to answer you all._

 _I suspect that Matthew received the well rounded Bildungsbürgertum-education. At school learning by heard was rather common, thus I imagine him able to recite Shakespeare ad hoc._

 _Finally, this chapter is not cleaned up. My brain wouldn't let me. I will try to do it as soon as I get some distance from the text._

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Matthew wanted to rush to her. He was halfway out oft he door, before he remembered he didn't actually know where Mary's room was. For years he had known that some day this big house would become his home, yet he didn't know it well. When he first arrived Robert had given him an extensive tour. However Matthew was a bachelor, his daughters unmarried, it was simply not done. So, Robert had never shown his heir apparent the family's rooms. Before the Great War Matthew had mostly been in the library and in the dining room or had wandered the park. Never had he climbed the stairs. And then the war had arrived and Downton had become a convalescent home. And so, when he came to live at Downton, he came as an officer and bound to a wheelchair. The family had shown him deference by giving him a private room, but for convenience it had been on the ground floor. Thus he had no idea where to find Mary.

Helplessly he looked back at his mother. His expression so anguished that Isobel's heart ached alongside her son's.

"Come with me. I will take you to her room."

He followed his mother down the corridor into the family's wing, his cane more necessary than ever. A feeling of gloom had settled in the halls. Even if he hadn't known it already, he would have guessed immediately that something wasn't right. The few servants he had seen on his way through the house had worn grim faces.

And then he was in front of her door. A room he had long wished to see. A room he often wondered about. This most personal of places in Mary Crawley's world. And now he was about to enter her sanctuary.

He took a fortifying breath. He felt as if he was back in the trenches and had taken a lungful of gas. Drawing air in was more difficult than it was supposed to be and rather painful as well; the air seem to be grating in his nose and lungs. He wanted to cough, relieve himself of this wretched sensation, but his mother's fatigue and her tentative steps had delayed him enough. He did not want to wait a second longer than necessary. Too great was his fear Mary could die before he saw her.

He was not sure what he had expected. He was overwhelmed with the number of people. Somehow he hadn't imagined the whole family (sans Cora) to be there, though it was undoubtedly an occasion to gather. Robert held Sybil in his arms as she quietly sobbed into his chest. At the dresser sat the dowager with a flinty expression on her face.

And next to Mary's bed sat Sir Richard. Matthew had never liked the man. He would even go so far as to say he detested him, but he couldn't help feeling sorry for him. Carlisle's face was a mask of anguish and misery. He clasped her right hand in both of his and murmured something under his breath. A prayer? And were those tears pooling in his eyes?

On Mary's other side and blocking his view stood Edith. She was wringing a cloth in a basin and wiping Mary's forehead. Only when she removed her towel again did Matthew finally see her.

He struggled against the cry. Mary looked indeed like she was on the brink of death. The question was no longer if she could die, but when she would. In the large bed she looked small and frail, barely a bump in the blankets. The bones of her fingers and wrist shockingly visible through skin and flesh. Her sweat stained nightgown clung to her clavicles. And then her face. Matthew had barely recognised her. Her face was gaunt and her eyes were sunken so deep in their sockets they seemed almost empty. The deep circles under her eyes giving her an skull-like appearance. Mary had always been elegantly fair. Now her skin was pale and had an eerie waxen look. Still, for Matthew Mary was still the most beautiful woman in the world.

 _Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe_

 _That unsubstantial death is amorous,_

 _And that the lean abhorrèd monster keeps_

 _Thee here in dark to be his paramour?_

Only three days ago he had held her in his arms. They had danced. And for a moment he had thought about following Cousin Violet's advice. And now here he was, his life being upended, but not in the desired way.

His mother came in behind him and grasped his hand. Her eyes conveyed the warning without words.

He swallowed. How could she expect him to follow decorum? Mary was lying there, battling with mortality. He wanted to run to her, fling himself at her and beg her to live. But then rationality won out and his steps towards the bed were measured.

In a faltering voice he asked Edith "What happened? How is she?"

"Not good. Anna found her this morning like this. Dr. Clarkson suspects the worst. Half an hour or so he says…"

Matthew knew that Edith and Mary disliked each other. Yet here she was, nursing her sister so very gently. One would never suspected the usual malice between them. He wondered if she, too, came to be remorseful for their relationship - now that Mary's final hours were here.

"I don't understand, when I was with her she was talking she seemed fine. She was nursing mother..."

"It's a strange desease, Matthew. With sudden, savage changes."

"Is there nothing we can do? What can I do?"

"Unfortunately there isn't. We did all that already. Now we can only hope that it will be swift." The back of her hand brushing away her tears.

"Can I talk to her? Is she lucid? Does she understand what you tell her?"

Edith shook her head. "We don't think so. But maybe something will get through."

"Mary? Can you hear me? It's me. It's Matthew." He searched her face for a reaction. Any sign she had heard him, but her body lay still as ever.

 _… Mary is still in love with you! ..._

Matthew wanted nothing more than to profess his love to her.

Mary had been in love with him! Had loved him. And he… he had made the wrong choice.

He sank down onto his knees next to the bed and took hold of her left hand. The left hand - where his wedding ring should sit. Would she have accepted him, if he had been more patient? After everything they went through he, could no longer doubt her.

Almost mirroring Sir Richard's position on the other side of the bed, he held onto her hand. Her hand is warm and moist. He wanted to tell her. Tell her that he loved her, too. That he was sorry. That he wanted to choose her.

"Oh Mary…" he sighed.

And then he felt his mother's hand on his shoulder. She leaned over him and caressed Mary's arm. Her whispered words were meant only for him.

"Matthew, she is his fiancée, not yours. Let him be with her. You owe him that. Come now, say your goodbyes. Nothing more. She won't hear it anyway."

Matthew wanted to rage and rave, but his mother was right. He had no claim. He was only a cousin and a friend to Mary, nothing more. She had never accepted his proposal, yet had done so with Carlisle. Even if it was a truth hard to admit.

But when he looked at Sir Richard just then, he could not deny him at least these last few moments. The man's pain was genuine.

Getting up was a struggle. He had been weary even before he had learned of Mary's situation. The sorrow he felt for not being more truthful with her weighed heavy on his shoulders. And knowing that she would not hear how much she meant to him almost kept him down. Surprisingly it was Edith who helped him rise. She took his arm and guided him to an armchair in a far away corner. Her eyes were sympathetic and her voice quiet.

"She knew it, Matthew. She knew it, even when you didn't want to know."

She opened his hands and placed something in it. It was an old photograph of himself.

"I found her praying over it. Some time at the beginning of the war, before you came back. She tried to hide it, but I had seen it already. Today I found it again. She had it under her pillow."

 _…I suspected long ago that the flame had not quite gone out…_

Matthew fingered the carton. He could see it had been handled regularly. The edges and corners softened. A slight crease was running across his cardboard chest.

"Mary wasn't a selfless person. She really wasn't. But she was, when it came to you. She didn't say anything; neither about Lavinia nor about her feelings. She didn't want to sabotage your happiness. She loved you too much and for once she didn't expect anything in return."

Edith gave his forearm a soft squeeze, got up and took the cloth back from Sir Richard.

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 _Constructive criticism and feedback is very much appreciated!_


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